


Elephant

by Jingletown



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Angst angst and more angst!, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by the Benjamin Francis Leftwich song by the same name, M/M, Sad!Jun, Sadder!Jeonghan, Therapy, Trauma, seventeen angst, trigger warnings apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jingletown/pseuds/Jingletown
Summary: While sitting in his therapist's waiting room, trying to find a little guidance after an unthinkable tragedy, Jun meets the most beautiful man he's ever seen with his own two eyes. And it's there that he realizes three things. The first is that pretty people have problems, too. The second is that no one's words of wisdom, no matter how poetic, can do a goddamn thing to help take this pain away. And the third is that maybe, blissfully, he isn't so alone in his grief after all.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. Author's Note

This story means the world to me and after an 8 month hiatus, I feel like it's finally time to bring it back and tell it the right way. It is heavily inspired by the song "Elephant" by Benjamin Francis Leftwich and I think listening to it before beginning sets the tone. I hope you love it as much as I do!

Please note that this story has dark elements and themes. Trigger warnings apply for **death, descriptions of anxiety and panic, mentions of (but not graphic descriptions of) sexual assault and suicide.** It will also heavily feature cognitive behavioral therapy. This story is very important to me but your mental health and safety are MORE important. Please do not read this story if this type of content has a chance of upsetting you.

Thank you so much for your time and I hope you enjoy it!


	2. Chapter 2

**_Been a while since I sat you down to talk, Elephant._ **

* * *

_“Welcome, everyone, to the Staten Island Children’s Museum! My name is Terri and I’m going to be showing you around. And if at any time, anyone has any questions, you just shoot your hand up in the air real high_ _and I’ll call on you! Okay! Now, first, follow me and we’ll…”_

_“Can we go look at the dinosaur exhibit now?”_

_“No. Shh. Listen to Terri.”_

_“Dinosaurs after?”_

_“Yeah, of course. Come on. I promise. Just be good for now. Dinosaurs after.”_

_“Okay, okay…”_

* * *

Jun wakes up hard.

His heart hurts.

Not emotionally, at least not at that very second, but _physically_. His heart is beating so fast that it aches. It makes him feel hollow, like he can’t take a deep enough breath to survive. Jun tries, tries to fill his lungs with as much air as he can, but he gags. He’s too warm, he realizes next. Furiously, frantically, he kicks off his blankets and rips off his shirt. He can feel red splotches taking over every inch of his skin, his hair clinging wetly to his forehead, his vision getting blurrier and blurrier with each blink.

He reaches blindly for the glass of water on his nightstand, nearly knocking it over and flooding the floor, but he brings it to his lips and takes quick, tiny sips like his grandmother taught him as a kid.

It’s another few minutes before the pain fades to discomfort. The sweat on his skin dries and makes him feel itchy, cold. The gagging and shallow breathing turned his stomach and bile pools in the back of Jun’s throat. He runs a hand through his hair and thinks he needs a shower but he always worries about showering late at night.

Won’t it wake his neighbors?

Instead, Jun puts on a fresh shirt and creeps carefully into the kitchen. It’s not until he actually makes it to the fridge that Jun remembers he lives alone. With Seungkwan gone, he doesn’t need to tiptoe. He can stomp, scream, slam doors if he wants. (But he won’t because he doesn’t want to disturb the neighbors.)

He’d been such an annoying roommate. He scream-sang in the shower. He ate all of Jun’s food. He cried at credit card commercials. He was like a round, blonde tornado and Jun had threatened to kill him with a whisk or a rolling pin or some other kitchen tool at least thirty times in the year they’d lived together.

But Jun missed him.

Right there on the fridge was a picture of Seungkwan and his tall, dark, handsome boyfriend Mingyu who’d swept him off his feet and into his townhouse in the Bronx. It was their Christmas card, something Seungkwan had slapped on the fridge door in early December when they’d gotten them printed.

“Goddamn, I’m good-looking,” he’d said, staring into his own face like it was made of precious gemstone. “And Mingyu ain’t too bad either.” He’d laughed loudly at his own joke, then said, “You can even keep that picture! Something to remember me by.”

Jun had rolled his eyes.

“I’ll still see you four times a week in class.”

Seungkwan smirked.

“But you won’t see me naked anymore! Tragic.”

Jun would have been more than okay with never seeing Seungkwan’s ass ever again but deep down, he knew he was going to miss him. He was an annoying roommate but Jun actually really liked living with him. He was happy Seungkwan was happy but he didn’t want him to leave.

(Of course, Seungkwan _didn’t_ end up moving on December 9th like he planned, staying instead until the first week of February when he felt more comfortable leaving Jun alone, but that was a whole different conversation that Jun didn’t want to have.)

Jun stares at the photo, adhered to the fridge with a New York Jets magnet that doesn’t belong to him, then reaches in for a ginger ale. It settles his stomach almost immediately and Jun breathes a little easier. (Literally, not figuratively.)

He sits in the dark for a while, still not fully understanding that he lives alone now and can turn on as many lights as he wants whenever he wants and rests his head on the kitchen table. The wood feels cold against his forehead, his skin still clammy, and he stays there until it stops feeling refreshing and starts to hurt.

It’s the city that never sleeps and yet Jun feels like he’s the only person awake in the whole wide world He knows there’s people he can call, whether that’s his friends or some hotline, but he can’t do it. And he can’t help but feel alone. When the only person you want to talk to is completely and utterly unavailable, who are you supposed to call? What are you supposed to do when _you’re_ still here, when you’re still up and walking around, but the person you loved most of all just… isn’t?

Jun sits up too suddenly. He finds himself temporarily paralyzed by a thick headrush and it takes a minute for his vision to stabilize. When things stop looking spotty, he takes his soda into the living room. He can’t bear to go back to bed, he realizes. He’s sure his room is haunted, that it’s crawling with demons and ghosts and monsters, all of them judgmental and _mean_ and saying the same thing over and over and over again.

He doesn’t want to listen to them for another eight hours, doesn’t want to hear it anymore.

He’s afraid of what he might do if he has to hear it anymore.

Jun takes an orange blanket from the chair near the kitchen and plops down gracelessly onto the couch, making himself as small as possible. He pulls the blanket tightly around himself and turns on the TV. It’s already on the right channel.

What is it about the living room TV that makes Jun feel better? There’s a TV in his bedroom, too, so why doesn’t that one bring him any comfort? Why the one in here? Does it remind him of his childhood, of being sick and getting to sleep on the couch? Is it the glow of the screen, the soft, blue light that chases shadows around the room? Is it the noise, the low chatter of characters, the muted hum of obsolete electronics? Or is it simply the illusion that he’s surrounded by friendly faces, that he’s not alone but part of something bigger, something happier, something real?

He’s not sure. He doesn’t have the mental faculties to figure it out. He’s having a hard enough time getting up every day and feeding himself. He doesn’t have it in him to figure out why exactly he’s only able to sleep on _this_ couch with _this_ blanket and _this_ exact cartoon about astronauts playing on the TV.

Jun doesn’t ask anymore questions. He curls up, impossibly smaller, and falls asleep just before day breaks. And though he has the volume up enough to drown out the sound of early-morning garbage trucks and general city noise, Jun can’t help but hear the monsters from his bedroom, screaming and moaning, ghoulishly chanting the same 5 words that had plagued him every second of every hour of the last 42 days, the same 5 words that, as far Jun was concerned, defined him and the same 5 words he said to himself every time he was misfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

_It should have been you._


	3. Chapter 3

Jun misses school.

Not every single thing about and not every single day but… today. Today, while he’s sitting on the couch, staring through space and time, watching the news again but not actually listening to what anyone’s saying, wondering whether or not he’ll even shower, he misses school.

He understands why everyone around him (his family, his friends, his classmates, his professors, both on-campus counselors) all but _forced_ him to take a leave of absence but hadn’t known his hiatus would be so indefinite.

And he’s getting tired of climbing the walls.

Does he have the mental capacity or even the emotional fortitude to dive back into his full-time course-load? Probably not. Jun doesn’t currently have the mental capacity or emotional fortitude to _bathe_ every day, to feed himself something more complex than Hot Pockets, to answer texts and phone calls. How was he supposed to jump right back into his junior year of college like nothing had happened?

Grief is complicated. Jun knows that now.

It’s how 43 days can feel simultaneously like an entire lifetime _and_ like the blink of a teary eye.

He’s sick of sitting around, sick of listening to city noise and the muffled roar of his neighbors upstairs arguing, but he knows he can’t go back to school yet. Jun has considered a part-time job (he’d had one 43 days ago) and even leafed through want ads once or twice, but he’s never settled on anything. What type of job would suit him these days? Pizza delivery boy? (Will anyone mind if their pizza comes in a tear-soaked box? Or if it’s late because Jun heard a song that rendered him completely paralyzed for three-and-a-half minutes and he couldn’t get out of the car?) Dog-walker? (He knows how particular people are about their pets and he thinks it’ll be hard to explain why he can’t go into certain city parks.)

Strictly from a financial standpoint, Jun doesn’t need a job. He has scholarships, savings, insurance money, all of it sitting neatly in a bank account he doesn’t really touch. His bills are all on auto-pay. He’s coasting, has been for a month and a half, and though he’s got something of a cushion, a bloody, little nest egg, he hates to feel like he’s letting his finances drain.

But he barely spends any money. Besides bills (rent, cable, internet, utilities, cell phone), what is there? He lives in the city so he doesn’t have a car. He’s too depressed to shower so he doesn’t go out and socialize, doesn’t go out for drinks. His diet is mostly cup ramen, scrambled eggs, lopsided grilled cheeses, frozen dinners – all things that require minimal effort and nothing that ever costs more than $4 at a time.

Financially, Jun is okay. He doesn’t need a job to make ends meet right now.

But he thinks his heart might need it. If not his heart, then his brain. If not his brain, his _spirit_.

He can’t take much more of this, he knows. It’s not good for him, all this sitting around. He hates being alone with his thoughts, hates twiddling his thumbs and praying for mercy. He doesn’t need a job because he needs to make ends meet – he needs a job, or _something_ , to help him keep his head above water.

If there’s one thing Jun’s learned in the last 43 days, it’s that he can’t float.

He snatches his laptop from where he’d left it on the kitchen table, fully intending to search Craigslist until he finds _something_ he can do for ten or fifteen hours a week, but he’s distracted by a Gmail notification.

It’s not spam, not a bank statement, not a newsletter or promotion but an honest-to-goodness personal email. Jun wonders for a moment who still sends _emails_ when roughly 50 other, more modern forms of communication exist but a small smile graces his lips when he sees it’s from Vernon.

Vernon, a charming, artsy, open-minded pothead whose real name was Hansol Chwe but who chose instead to go by the middle name of legendary folk crooner James Taylor. _That_ was who still sent emails.

And though the antiquated gesture of the email itself had brought a quick flash of joy to Jun’s weathered heart, the actual content, one quick, straight-to-the-point sentence makes it sink into his belly.  
  
  


**Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?**

Yeah. He has. A lot more. But that doesn’t mean Jun wants to talk about it and it certainly doesn’t mean he wants to do it. The very idea makes his skin crawl and so Jun closes the laptop more forcefully than he needs to and marches into his room to get dressed.

Maybe he won’t shower today but he _is_ leaving the apartment. He _is_ going to get some fresh air and he _is_ going to enjoy his day. He has something to prove, to Vernon and maybe to himself, and he’s going to do it.

He’s not going to sit around and rot on the couch.

He’s not going to let his savings dwindle until he’s broke and destitute.

He’s not going to let the demons win, not going to let them scream at him, not going to _listen_.

And he’s not going to therapy no matter how much Vernon swears by this one miracle-worker of a doctor in midtown.

He dresses warmly because it’s February, throws his wallet and keys into his pocket, plugs his headphones into his phone and walks until his legs get tired.

The winter wind nips at his cheeks but it’s a nice change of pace from the stale, dry air of his apartment. People push by him, rushing back to the office or hustling to get something to eat before their lunchbreak is over, and he likes it. In a sense, it’s socialization without the pressure. He’s with people but he isn’t required to speak. Between the headphones and the fact that it’s New York City, there’s almost an expectation of rushed silence and for that, Jun is grateful.

He ducks down into the subway, swipes his card, hops onto a train and sits for a while. He chooses his destination arbitrarily, getting off when he feels like it, and he’s genuinely surprised to find himself staring at Central Park.

_How’d I get here?_

Was it fate? Coincidence? His subconscious wanting him to face his fears?

He doesn’t ask questions. He just turns up the volume on his phone, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks towards the park. And as he gets closer and closer and nothing bad seems to happen to him, Jun wonders if he’s truly that broken after all.

Is it possible he’s been healing all on his own? Is it possible to get better without actually making any active moves towards progress? Maybe people were right. Maybe time really _did_ heal all wounds, even the ones that were less like wounds and more like being ripped clean in half by a pipe bomb.

Before long, and without fully realizing it, Jun is _in_ the park. He’s walking on trails, nodding his chin at strangers, looking at dead trees, noticing dogs on leashes, wishing it was warmer.

And he’s okay.

_I’m getting better. If I’m here, I have to be getting better._

Why is it so hard for him to ask for help? He knows he has options. Maybe he thinks he’s too good for therapy. He’s too strong, too stubborn, too independent, too ashamed, fine. But that isn’t the only resource available to him. There are anonymous hotlines and chatrooms. There are support groups, people who meet in church basements and rec-centers and high school cafeterias. They sit in a circle and they eat supermarket baked goods and they talk about what they’ve been through. And if he’s too shy for that, there’s always Seungkwan. There’s Vernon. There’s Jihoon. He has friends who love him, friends who have spent 43 days worrying about him, 43 days asking him what they can do to help.

So why is it so hard to let them, to let _anyone_? Who’s he trying to kid? Does he think anyone in their right mind thinks he’s okay? If the situation were reversed, would he expect anyone else in his position to be okay? What in the world is he trying to prove?

Jun’s mind is racing to the point that all his thoughts just sounds like radio static. He’s not paying much attention to where he’s going, letting his legs run the show, letting his entire body move the way he pays his bills – automatically.

He has people who want to help him, people whose job it is to help him, so why is it damn near impossible to Junhui Wen to open his mouth and admit he needs it? Does he _really_ think he’s okay, that he can do this on his own, that he’s magically healing without any sort of intervention whatsoever?

It’s then that Jun looks up. _Now_ he knows where he is. The soccer fields. He grew up on this grass, broke his left arm a few hundred feet from where he’s standing now, loitered with soft pretzels and crappy iced coffee as a bored preteen, acted as assistant coach to a team of energetic, free-spirited first-graders not so long ago.

He hasn’t been anywhere near the soccer fields in almost 2 months.

So why now?

He hadn’t been trying to end up here. He’d been listening to music, thinking too much, disassociating, walking aimlessly. But was it really that aimless if he’d ended up here?

On the field closest to him, elementary schoolers trample clumsily across the field. A winter soccer clinic, Jun realizes. He’s more than familiar with those, both as a camper and a counselor. Parents pay big bucks to have their kids run around the frozen ground, most of them bundled up like tiny snowmen, trying to whip them into shape before the spring season rolled around.

Jun had been a talented athlete once, even considered going to college to play soccer, but his plans had changed as he aged. He’d been in advanced clinics and camps, playing with the best of the best in his age group, elite adolescents trying to hone their skills and return to the field in the spring with even more of an edge than they’d left with in the fall.

Something about it is so familiar, so nostalgic, so genuine that, for a second, Jun forgets everything else. He forgets the crushing ache in his bones, the emptiness in his chest, the demons waiting for him at home. All he remembers is the smell of the grass, the sweet, muscular burn of overexertion, the taste of cold, red Gatorade after a long, afternoon of running himself rampant.

For just a moment, Jun remembers what life felt like way before anything went wrong. For just a moment, Jun remembers _happiness_ , he remembers peace, he remembers what it felt like to have a future ahead of him.

But like everything else in life, the moment ends.

A little boy runs over to the sidelines, over to where Jun is standing, to complain to his mother about his cleats being too tight. His cheeks are rosy, a side-effect of winter temperatures and strenuous exercise,

He whines and pouts but his mother doesn’t take the bait. Smirking lovingly, she tells him to get back on the field, that they’ll get him new shoes another day, that they’ll go out for pizza when the clinic is over, and the little boy smiles.

His smile is awfully familiar and Jun stares at him for a long time, completely unbothered by how it might look from the outside. Square teeth, just a little bit crooked, the type of smile that’ll be beautiful after a year or two of braces, a familiar smile on a kid Jun’s never seen before.

The coach calls a timeout and all the kids scatter like bugs, running back to their parents for complaints and support. The little boy grins in relief, glad he doesn’t have to get back on the field, and removes his hat to run a small hand through sweaty hair.

He has big ears, the kind he’ll likely grow into someday but the kind that stick out.

The kind that make him look like a baby elephant.

Jun gasps, loudly enough for the boy and his mother to turn and face him. He can’t imagine how he looks, a grown man, tall and kind of handsome, white as a sheet and sweating despite the cold.

“Are you okay?” the woman asks, taking a protective step closer to her son. Jun can’t blame her for being suspicious. He opens his mouth to apologize but feels his stomach twist ferociously and because he doesn’t want to vomit on a child he’s already scared, he sprints in the opposite direction, making a frenzied beeline for the public bathrooms on the other side of the field.

He barely makes it.

Jun stumbles into the first available stall and empties the meager contents of his stomach into a filthy toilet. He’s ashamed of himself, embarrassed by his own weakness, of his own vulnerability. He pukes a few more times, even after his stomach is completely empty, then leans heavily against the inside of the stall. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop sweating.

Jun realizes he never closed the stall door when a very young child, a boy of maybe 3 or 4 in a _Paw Patrol_ hat, pokes his head inside and asks, “Hey, you okay?”

Jun doesn’t know what to say but then, a second later, the child’s adult comes along and shoos them away.

_I used to be a great coach and now I’ve become the type of person parents try to keep their kids away from._

He stills feels sick but there’s nothing left for his body to expel. And then, like always, when he’s done puking, the headache kicks in. It’s all-consuming, worse than any migraine he’s ever had, and it makes him dizzy. Then, like clockwork, the demons chime in.

_It should have been you. You know it should have been you. Why wasn’t it you? Why didn’t you do anything? Why, Junhui? Why?_

Sick, scared, trembling on the bathroom floor, Jun wants his mom but he knows that that’s never going to happen. He knows that ship has sailed. He knows she doesn’t want him anymore.

And so Jun starts to cry.

He pulls his knees to his chest and sobs. He doesn’t care who sees him, doesn’t care who’s afraid of him, doesn’t care about the literal trillions of germs with him on the floor or the choir of demons who laugh at him while he weeps.

He cries because he’s scared.

He cries because it hurts.

Before long, the crying turns into hyperventilation which turns into choking on nothing and that turns into feeling like he can’t breathe.

He fishes his phone from his pocket and texts Jihoon with panicked, shaky fingers.  
  
  


**Whaayt was that thinga about bereathing you taught em? rectangle breathigng? please i needs help  
  
  
**

Jihoon’s reply is almost immediate.  
  
  


**Square breathing. Inhale for 4 seconds. Hold it for 4 seconds. Exhale for 4 seconds. Hold it for 4 seconds.  
  
  
**

Then, right after that, another text:  
  


**This will pass, okay? Just breathe. You’re okay, Jun. You’re okay.  
  
**

Jun follows Jihoon’s directions to the letter.

_In, 2, 3, 4._

_Hold, 2, 3, 4._

_Out, 2, 3, 4._

_Hold, 2, 3, 4._

He does it over and over again, as many times as it takes for the shaking to stop and the nausea to pass.

Jihoon is a miracle worker, something Jun already knows to be true, and once his fingers feel, he texts him back.  
  
  


**Thank you. I’m okay. I saw a kid… goofy smile, big ears. I lost it. Sorry if I worried you. I’ll call you later.  
  
  
**

It takes Jun a minute to get off the floor. He’s sure he’ll never be clean again but that thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it would have 2 months ago.

He stands on shaky legs, wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve, washes his hands and begins his trek home, not bothering with his headphones.

There’s no song that suits what he’s feeling right now.

It takes him a while to get back. He walks for as long as his aching legs will let him (Jun knows a lot more about the physical side of trauma and grief now than he ever knew possible) and then he takes the bus the rest of the way.

By the time he gets back into his apartment, he feels sore. The adrenaline mixed with the cold air _and_ after spending a good, long while in the fetal position in a tiny bathroom stall? His muscles didn’t stand a chance.

Showering could be hard but… maybe Jun will take a bath. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any longer so he’d bring his phone and watch something. _Bob’s Burgers_ or _The Simpsons_ , something easy, something happy.

He’ll eat, too, he decides. Maybe something more than just a Hot Pocket. Maybe something with a little more substance.

He can’t explain it. Maybe Jun just simply feels bad for himself. If it was anyone else in the world who’d been laying in a puddle of tears and filth in a public restroom, he’d want to take care of them. He’d put on their favorite show and cook them their favorite meal. He didn’t think anyone in the world deserved to feel what he was feeling… maybe not even him.

Jun goes to the bathroom, rinses the tub with the detachable showerhead, puts down the stopper and starts the water but before he undresses, he grabs his laptop, opens Gmail and sends a message back to Vernon.  
  


**Yeah, I thought about it. Can you send me the doctor’s phone number?**

  
Simple, short, straight-to-the-point.

Confident in his choice, he hits _send_ , closes the laptop, strips down to nothing and sinks into the tub, swearing that, for the rest of the night, he’ll try to be easier on himself.

And let it be known that 43 days into a waking nightmare, 43 days into the most painful thing that he’s ever lived through, Junhui finally asks for help.


	4. Chapter 4

Jihoon scarfs down tacos at lightning speed, stopping only to flag down their server and ask her for more salsa.

Jun smirks.

He’s known Jihoon since they were ten and he’s had more meals with him than almost anyone else h’s ever known. Watching his friend double-fist Mexican food, Jun has the same thought he always does, the one he’s way too smart to ever say out loud.

_He’s so small. Where does he put all that food?_

Jun pokes at his lunch, flipping black beans over with his fork, fighting the knot in his stomach and trying to figure out why it’s even there in the first place.

_He’s your best friend. He isn’t going to be mad. Just tell him and eat your food._

With a mouth full of seasoned beef and something called diablo sauce, Jihoon asks, “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Jun had called him the night before, after the bath had calmed his nerves, and asked him to lunch, wanting to tell Jihoon about his decision to reach out to a therapist. But now, sitting across from him, Jun feels panic creeping up his throat.

“Uh…” He trails off, his eyes wandering the restaurant. At one of the booths against the wall, a young couple is fighting, speaking quietly but tensely, maybe breaking up. At the nearest high-top, two middle-aged men are debating some football statistics. Near the kitchen door, a few employees are laughing about something.

Jihoon’s chewing slows when he sees Jun’s hesitation.

“Jun? Come on. Whatever it is, let it out. It’s just me.”

Jun sighs heavily.

“You remember my friend Vernon?”

Jihoon cocks his head.

“The one who’s dating your former roommate?”

“No, no. That’s Mingyu.”

“Which one is Vernon? Oh! The stoner?”

Jun grins.

“That’s the one.” He continues pushing his food around his plate, his face getting hot.

“Well? What about him.”

“Well, see, a few days ago, we were hanging out at my apartment and he suggested that maybe…”

Jihoon’s eyes begin to bulge out of his head.

“Suggested _what_? Jun, you’re killing me here, bud. What’s up?”

Jun exhales, puts down his fork, rubs his face with both hands, then blurts out, “He suggested I see a therapist. Specifically, this one therapist he knows who specializes in… whatever this is that’s going on with me. And I didn’t want to do it at first but then yesterday, after having a panic attack on the floor of a filthy bathroom in Central Park, I decided that maybe I _do_ need help and so I emailed him last night and asked if he could call her for me, the therapist, I mean, and this morning, he wrote back and my first appointment is on Tuesday morning.”

He’d spoken quickly, his words running into each other, and when he finishes, he takes a big breath, his chest surprisingly tight.

Jihoon stares back at him expectantly and when Jun doesn’t say anything else, he speaks: “That’s it?”

Jun raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

Jihoon stares for another second, blinks and then bursts out laughing.

“Jeez. You had me scared that it was something bad!”

“You mean… you’re not mad?”

Jihoon looks confused.

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because you’ve been telling me for over a month that I should see someone. You even made that list of all the doctors around here who take my insurance. I thought you might be annoyed that I ignored your advice and then turned around and took Vernon’s.”

Jihoon stops laughing, his face suddenly serious. He considers reaching across the table to touch Jun’s hand but thinks better of it.

“Junhui,” he begins and he only ever uses Jun’s full name when he’s about to say something important so Jun pays close attention. “I don’t care how or why you get help. All I care about is that you _get help_. I don’t care about the details. I just want you to get better. If Vernon’s advice rang true and he’s the reason you’re going to sit down and talk to someone? Shit. I’ll send the guy an edible arrangement. I owe him one.”

Jun’s smile is small but genuine.

“Thanks, Jihoon.” Content, Jihoon picks up his fourth taco and goes to town. “I bet you’re going to miss being my shrink, though.”

Jihoon laughs through chews.

“As much as I enjoy psychoanalyzing you,” he says, “I think that, this time, you’d be in better hands with a professional. Honestly, your shit is all _way_ above my paygrade right now. I’ve only taken two psych courses. I need at least a psych minor before I can _begin_ to understand what you’ve got going on.”

They laugh and Jun feels lighter. He picks his fork back up and takes a bite of his food.

It’s amazing how Jihoon can make him laugh. Of course, they’ve never joked about _it_ but they can still joke like this. They can poke fun about the ambiguous cloud that surrounds Jun, about the way he isn’t coping, about the things he needs to do to stay afloat, about the bad choices he’s making. And somehow, doing so makes Jun feel a lot better. If they can laugh about it, it _can’t_ be that bad.

There’s a line somewhere and Jihoon never crosses it. He knows exactly what to say to make Jun laugh without ever going too far and for that, Jun is grateful.

When he goes home that night, he feels a little bit better. It’s fleeting but he appreciates it, proud of the way he makes it through dinner, a shower and half of a TV show before he remembers. (And that’s when Jun feels guilty. How dare he forget, even for an hour? How _dare_ he be happy?)

He goes to bed early, laying in bed for a good, long while, hands folded across his stomach, eyes glued to the ceiling. He listens to the sounds of the city, all the sirens and all the honking and all the chatter on the sidewalk. Jun prefers to be cold so he keeps his bedroom window open even in the February freeze, and he hears people pass by, speaking loudly, laughing.

In his head, he counts the hours until his appointment with Dr. Choi, wondering what exactly he’s meant to say to her when he sits down on that couch for the first time. Does she know anything about him? Has Vernon told her anything about what happened? It’s the uncertainty that makes his stomach hurt, though he thinks that might also just be from the fajitas he had for lunch.

Jun’s never been to therapy before. He doesn’t come from a family of people who place a high importance on mental health and he’s sure no one in his bloodline has ever even _considered_ talking to someone about their feelings. (Though, to be completely fair, he _does_ think his mother is seeing someone now. Maybe she’s dragged his father along once or twice, forced him to open up, forced him to face what happened. But San? Just the thought of it makes Jun want to laugh. San, the kid who’s too proud to shed a tear, the guy who still hasn’t cried _once_ in the 44 days since? No. His brother has not gone to therapy. San would rather die than admit he’s ever felt a single emotion in his entire life.)

Jun feels alone. He knows he can call Jihoon, text Seungkwan, email Vernon but he doesn’t want to move. He squeezes his eyes shut, forces away the memories, pushes down the images in his head, swallows the bile, wills tears not to fall.

_I was doing so good today. Why is it always so much worse at night?_

He reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, turns it off and lays in the dark. And then, because it still doesn’t feel dark enough in his room to match the darkness in his heart, Jun pulls the blankets over his head and tries the square breathing Jihoon recommends.

He wishes he had someone to talk to and just as quickly as he thinks it, Jun wishes that he could just talk to the one person who’d still love him.

Even now.

Even after everything.

The tears slip down his cheeks before he can stop them.

_Goddamn it._

He reaches for one of his pillow and hugs it against his chest, crying into the cotton and letting the feathers muffle his sobs.

He hates this.

As much as he’s dreading Tuesday, as much as he cannot fathom the idea of sitting across from a stranger and bearing his entire soul, he knows he can’t do this alone. He knows he won’t survive if he tries to handle this on his own.

And he needs to survive.

He _has_ to.

Because he knows he has no choice, and because Jun is content with living his life entirely for a ghost, he wipes his tears and he forces himself to go to sleep.

Maybe, he thinks, he’ll feel a little better in the morning.

And as he slips in and out of consciousness, the beginning scenes of his recurring nightmare dancing just on the edge of his vision, Jun wishes the very same wish that has plagued him for weeks.

_I just wish I could sit you down to talk, Elephant. Just like we used to._


End file.
